Brother and Empire
by the sun will always shine
Summary: Scotland makes a bet he thinks is an easy win, and one that England thinks he can dominate without even trying. England takes it upon himself to win, and soon enough Scotland realises that England is not quite who he used to be. (No established pairings, Dystopia!England, mentions of character death and Empires, T for bad language and violent themes)


AN/ I wanted, really hard, to incorperate a dystopia assignment I had to do a while back with the idea of a new empire. Anyway, we just have some ScotEng hatred (no fluff. SIGNIFICANT LACK of fluff), and a dystopian England. There is swearing in this (and lots of it), because it involves members of the UK.

Another note, in reference to the end: The British Empire is considered by a few to be in two parts. The first is before the American revolution. The second is the rise that occured after that. I can't remember who coined the term, but I don't suppose that matters...? Anyway.

Thoughts appreciated!

And through the London streets, a loud voice was heard:

"Frater? Acta est fabula. Acta est fabula!"

INCIPE!

"Brother." The voice was mocking, twisting the Scottish brogue into a tone it should never have been twisted into.

Across the room, an English man sighed in exasperation, ridding his lungs of oxygen as quickly as he could, before slamming his papers down on the desk he was sitting at, and raising his eyes to the other.

"What?" England was CLEARLY frustrated, judging by his body language, but he couldn't have been that irritated, he hadn't started dropping 'T's yet. "Scotland, if this is about independence, I can't deal with it now! Maybe when I'm NOT dealing with the olympic fucking games, yeah?" Scotland looked at him. When the other man returned his gaze to his paper work, and began scribbling furiously, Scotland allowed his eyes to wander, surveying the room, in detail, for the hundredth time.

The desk was sparse underneath, (not that Scotland could see the actual desk for the moment, it was currently plastered with various official-looking forms.) and you could just notice yesterday's newspaper (The Times, England had always been adamant that he should only ever read The Times) hidden beneath the sheets.

The walls were cream and clean, decorated only with a few unthreatening burgundy lampshades and a single painting at the back of the room. The painting was beautiful, (Scotland assumed it was a watercolour, and also that it was beautiful. He wasn't really interested in English art) the scene one of an English riverside. It was placed next to the window, so you could see the view of London easily enough, if you got bored of English quaintity. London itself was surprisingly light that day, and warm. It was April, and far from April showers, the skies were clear, and a brilliant blue warmed the Londoners as they went about their business, many, many, many floors below. And so Scotland threw himself down onto a chair (one facing the window- this was a lot warmer than Scotch weather, and occaisonally some sun was nice), and waited for England to finish. Intervening now, he reasoned, would only make England throw him out faster.

It took longer than he expected; he was still sprawled on his seat a grand total of 45 minutes later, still staring at the clock, and still waiting for the seconds to pass. Scotland, around then, decided that England could deal with it later, and that he was more important than ALL of that shit.

"Brother." Silence.

"Brother?" More silence.

"Brooootheeeer." The scritch-scratching of his brother's biro was getting louder, and Scotland realised that England was trying to block out the noise.

"Brother!" Scotland moved then, now sitting directly in front of England, before shoving his face and arms onto the already overpopulated desk. England sighed, and asked what the FUCK Scotland was actually doing here, without removing his gaze from one of the more wordy papers.

"Brother, I am here because ye are not an Empire." And the words, they had the intended effect. England's muscles tensed, and he scowled.

He still did not look up from his papers.

"Ye," Scotland continues, "are finished. Ye are a dyin' breed, the last of yer kind." Scotland paused, and leaned off to the side. "And ye're not even a very good example, anymore. But ANYWAY..." Scotland hurried, then, trying to distract England from his new plan, which consisted of killing Scotland. And not much else. "Since, ye are on yer last legs, I hoped ye would grant me instant independence. Ye know, not go for the whole 'Dragg'n' them down with ye' thing. Yeah?" He stopped at the sight of England's narrowed eyes, furrowed brows and hideous glare. "Wha'? Yer offended? Brother, ye've done worse things to me, ye shouldn't dish it out-"

England was struggling at this point; his accent just didn't want to stay in London and kept running away from him, landing painfully Norfolk or Norwich. He stopped bothering after the 'Dish it out' comment.

"Hold yew 'ard!" After Scotlands raises an eyebrow, and then in the few seconds it takes for him to get his accent under control, he switches from Norfolk to somewhere in Wessex, in the hope that it'll be coherant. He coughs awkwardly, though Scotland seems irritatingly unfazed. Again. "Right. Anyway, You've done plenty of bad shit to me! I just reciprocated, you know that YOU'RE the villain here! You always have been!" Scotland looks vaguely shocked, and though England is struggling with both his accent and reading Scotland's face, he can tell there is at least a small amount of true indignation hidden within the tall Scotch man. "Don't deny it! You did it, everyone did! You're older than me, _brother, _you should remember better than I do! You should remember my piss poor childhood better than anyone!" The Scots face is pure malice, indignation shaking out of his pores.

"I dinnea what yer talk'n' about! I n'v'r started anyth'n', not with ye! Yer a li-"

"Don't. You. Fucking. DARE call me a liar, Scotland! You know EXACTLY what I bloody mean! When we were young, and I was, according to you, most loved by our mother, but I don't even REMEMBER her! My memories start from her dissolution! Her DEATH, Scotland, Her fuckin' death!" England drops the 'TH' and replaces it subconsciously with an 'EF' sound, and Scotland knows then that England is very, very angry. "You have good memories, nostalgia, happiness, I know for a fact. And then you choose to first adopt me into Celtic religion and then forcibly eject me from it!" England drops the 'T' again, instead using glottal stops. England himself is beyond caring. "I was never a Celtic nation, never! And I know you fucking knew it-" Scotland opens his mouth, frowning profusely,at the words, the way they're said, and the way England looks (His eyes are alight and burning, and it looks almost like his hair is standing on end), "-no, you KNEW it, I looked Scandinavian; blonde haired, not red-headed! I was a child of Rome, reared on a combination of Latin and older tongues, but you were never my sole heritage! Brother, you knew, and first you called me brother, and then you called me murderer, and THEN you tried to call me DEAD! You started this, you started this the first time you tried to kill me! YOU STARTED THIS WHEN YOU FUCKING BROUGHT ME INTO BRITTANIA!" The last sentance is so filled glottal stops and dropped sounds it takes Scotland a second to process it.

And then silence.

England glares at him, bitter and angry. Scotland says nothing, and after about 5 minutes, England begins to deflate slightly.

Those shoulders loosen, he slumps, and the fire in his eyes is partway extinguished. England looks more human now, less of the imperial beast that few mention anymore. The silence is less awkward and more tentative for Scotland now, as he watches England sink into the chair.

"Brother, I propose a bet." Scotlands voice is clearer now, more southern. Easier for England to understand.

It takes him a while to realise that this is Scotland's version of nice; that him using an easily comprehensible accent is him compromising for an argument. England just sighs.

"A bet, England, a bet! Look, here are the terms: one year from now, if ye own less land, ye set me free, but if ye own more I'll relinquish my seats in parliament. If ye still have the same amount we wait until next year. Deal?" England eyes him, peircing and fierce.

The response comes, and Scotland doesn't even bother to place the accent.

"..Why? Yar a bastard, why would yar offar summat like that?" Scotland raises his eyebrows then. Did that mean England expected to own more land?

"Ye think this is a good deal? Ye must be out of yer tiny little mind!" England sighs, and there is silence. So Scotland grins.

Silence means he's WON.

"Alright then, Brother, how about ye give me my ind'p'nd-?"

"Okay. I accept."

Scotland pauses.

"...What?"

England returns to his work, and speaks as he fixes his eyes on some probably important paperwork.

"I accept your deal. See you in one years time. Get out. Now."

And he just stands there. Doesn't move, just stands and stares. Because this isn't his brother, he realises then. This is England. And his brother is a weakling, his brother doesn't smoke, doesn't ever do ANYTHING rebellious, his brother loses, his brother is a lesser man. But this is England. England is powerful, he smokes, he screams and he wins. He hits back with more force, rips armies apart when he can, and makes allies with those that could when he himself was unable. And then, THEN the penny drops.

Scotland hasn't made a deal with his brother.

He's made a deal with England.

And England doesn't lose, not to Scotland.

ET PRIMO, IN SATUS.

Scotland didn't know it, at the time. Didn't realise that that discrepancy, that tiny irrelavent fact would change the course of the world's future.

England didn't either. He didn't feel the mood swings he already had accelerating, propelling through his two personas until he was more of a pirate, more of a controlling force than a gentleman.

Even when he noticed, he couldn't say he minded.

Even when he noticed, he couldn't say he cared.

ET MOX, ORTUM.

It's been years. Scotland has been waiting, but nevertheless the weight is borne on broad shoulders and an angry countenance, and Scotland supposes that it has been more than years, and that he is not just old in days and months and centuries anymore.

Scotland feels it on his soul.

Nothing happened in the first year. In the future, people would blame that on the 2012 olympics, and England-the-man's lack of other activity.

No one thought, then, to blame it on the riots that succeeded the 2011 summer destruction. No one thought to link them, until the next year, when they happened again. No one connected the growing sense of fear in the country.

England still wasn't losing land, but his treatment of his country was volatile, the citizens of long lost empire were growing up as masterminds (a subjective term, and though most would certainly fail intellectual examinations, many could trick anyone out of anything), as criminals, as feared; They certainly were not growing up as the children they were meant to be. It was not a safe time to walk the roads, least of all if you were not English and had somehow had the misfortune of standing in the dystopian London streets.

Scotland was standing outside of a a tower made of sheet glass, concrete, cement and metal, in itself a queer mix of power, fear and subtlety. England's office block had long ago been bombed by terrorists before he and his citizens had instigated the RISC program, known officially as RETENTION and INTERNALISATION of SECURITY CONCERNS . RISC was terrifying- and they knew everything.

Your every word.

Your every noise.

Your every friend.

(It seemed like they knew every thought, but of course that would be silly, now wouldn't it?)

It was now notoriously difficult to get into the country, but the damage had already been done. The buildings had been ruined, and England had moved to a ground floor flat instead. It was marginally less safe than his previous dwelling, but then, everything was, and it was still a home, regardless of how it appeared outwardly.

Scotland had not spoken a word here in months. It was too dangerous now, even with official business, (and despite RISC, which did nothing to stop those already inside the borders, the killings and violence were rife) his accent would have been noticed. It got thicker with fear, and he can't help it, he IS afraid.

And he is lucky.

As England opens the doors of corrugated iron, he knows he is lucky, KNOWS that the lack of madness in those eyes mean he will not be brought to an end today.

"Ah, Scotland," Comes the voice that never calls him 'brother' anymore. "In, quick. The nationalist trap in Camden broke apart a few days ago, so you'll want to be fast..." The voice wasn't northern, it sounded to be from around Essex, and as Scotland is ushered through the metal, he stops trying to place it, just being glad it is not obscenely convoluted and still understandable.

Scotland doesn't look at the walls as he comes in. He has seen the blood, the paint and the trophies before, he doesn't need to see them again. He is led (he can't see which room he's brought to, but he's done this so many times he doesn't need to) to the living room, the only part of the house that seems to reflect the old England. Scotland's eyes are open now, and he can see that the walls are still a soft beige, though they are darker than they were when he last saw them. And as he sits down, he notices yet another thing that was different, and it was so subtle. Everything is different here, some of it obvious, some of it less so.

England does not offer him anything. Not tea, nor courtesy. He just sits there, expecting Scotland to talk. The latter takes a moment to run through the changes in England, then, the subtle and the large.

England had abandoned the idea of pretending to be a gentleman, and Scotland considered that the only obvious improvement. England was a lot less refined than he had been, far more cockney slums than Buckingham Palace. His accent remained in firmly urban areas now, what with the rural spaces being cordoned off (People had to pay ridiculous amount to enter the remaining green spaces. The countryside was for the exceptionally rich, now). Cars had been largely abandoned, and people made bikes from the excess metal, in order to save themselves (and the country) from poverty, and the cost of rising fuel prices. England looked younger than he used too, as well. The population of England was now firmly rooted in youth, and it was becoming a common occurence for people to shoot themselves at the age of fifty, or even earlier. People simply could not function if they were less than completely able.

The country was not for the old, not anymore. After the Queen passed away, along with her son, the next-in-line Prince William abdicated , leaving England and his territories with a king not even 30 years old. Prince Harry became king of England, and he was loved in his role. Except that England was changing.

England himself had been better for it. The age demographic had made him look physically younger (he now appeared to be a university student at most), and he was certainly more like himself than he ever had been under Elizabeth's rule, or even George's rule before her. And that was fine.

Until the riots started.

England coughs, and his bright green eyes stare at Scotland from behind the can of lager he had picked up. Scotland keeps it to the point.

"Ye told me ye'd give me independence if ye lost land." England keeps staring. His eyes had always been brighter, always more acidic than Scotland's own. Windows to the soul, people said. Maybe they were right.

"It's December. You know the bet were made in April. And I ain't lost land." And Scotland grins then, because England HAS. And then he says:

"Erosion," growls Scotland. "Erosion." And England smiles.

Fucking SMILES.

"Yeah, I reckoned you might pick up on that at some point." Scotland's smile twitches ever so slightly. It returns to normal when he realises that either way, he's free. Whether England knew or was ignorant was competely irrelavent. "Anyway, I have until April. Come and see me then, yeah?" It was strange, Scotland reflects, that even with his lack of unsettling gentlemanly attitude and the rough-housing cockney slur that he now used instead of Received Pronounciation, England could be fucking intimidating when he wanted. And as England was currently leaning forward, with his strange eyes the brightest thing in the room, and that stupid bloody SMILE that split his face, he was definitely the more...intimidating of the two.

"W'at, ye exp'ct ta own MORE land? As in, conquer?" Scotland scoffs. "Mate, yer not an Empire. Ye've not been fer years. Stop holding on to a... dream..." And then he knows.

Scotland's been in the flat for all of 15 minutes. He's already outstayed his welcome. The smile widens, the eyes burn holes into Scotland's skull.

"Talk to you April. Bye, then."

"Wai', wai'! Ye're not plannin' an INVASION, are ye?!"

And then, without a reply, Scotland is thrown out of the house. And as he shouts, Scotland realises that that probably is not such a good idea.

"Fuckin' English bastar'!"

The Londoners, turfed onto the street and left there to rot, turn to look at him. The masses that were abandoned but love their country and its land and its history dearly, they look at him.

"Scottish," they say (they recognise it still, but they haven't heard it in many many years and the word is mispronounced-), and then some nationalists begin to creep forward, padding steadily along the grimy, concrete street (Scotland KNOWS they're nationalists, they wear England flags with the English rose superimposed over the top; A sign associated with people who were both loyal to their country and willing to rip your face off to prove it). The others follow, and in less than two seconds they become the head of a murderous procession.

It takes all of 3 seconds for Scotland to run.

He doesn't stop running until he's just west of Essex.

All the while he's running, all the while as he watches skyscrapers fall and flat-blocks collapse into themselves, he hears a voice, one of English intonation. It calls to him, deafens him and maddens him.

He could not escape, not even if he was out of reach.

"Frater, Acta est fabula. Acta est fabula!"

It translates easily in his mind. It was not quite the mother of the English language, but years of it let his brain connect the phrase easily.

"Brother, this is the end. This is the end!"

TUNC FINEM.

And it was.

It was the end of the United Kingdom and all the ties it reached for in a last ditch attempt to stay affloat. The end of a free Great Britain. The end of a great many things indeed.

And it was the rise of the third empire, this time one of England and England alone.

And ten years from then, the public called and shrieked and sang:

"The king is dead!" And yet another nation too old to live, but far too old to die too, is brought and flogged and handcuffed to the famous empty plinth in that famous empty square. "Long!" A sharp thwack, and a tumultous noise. "Live!" A roar, a shout and a rejoice. "The!" And England appears, and he is already so DIFFERENT; His eyes are sharper, his hair longer, body more bulky and nails more black. And he joins. "KING!"

All of England explodes into shouts and screams and brays and extremes.

All of England rejoices.

And all of England, for the third time in its life, rules.

MEMORIA IMPERIUM!


End file.
